


This You

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, KNBxNBA, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 17:44:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16454483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: If he could play basketball with Taiga today, though—a pipe dream, still coming back to him.





	This You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justlikeswitchblades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/gifts).



> set in the universe in which tatsuya plays for the knicks and taiga is a firefighter in washington heights
> 
> happy birthday tatsuya!

The door to the fire station is open on Tatsuya’s way home. It had been closed when he’d made the morning walk from his apartment to the bodega by the train station, and he’d dawdled by the overgrown empty lot with the stray cats in the hopes that it would be open by the time he walked by again. No one’s standing outside, so Tatsuya pokes his head in.

“Morning.”

A large firefighter still wearing her jacket takes a step out from behind one of the trucks. “Hey, Tatsuya!”

“Hey, Lauren. How are you?”

“You know, the usual. Went up to handle a stove accident a while ago, but they’d managed to put it out before we got there. Looking for Taiga?”

“Maybe," says Tatsuya.

“I’ll get him—”

“Hi,” says Taiga, coming out of the back at a quick pace. “That late already?”

“A little later,” says Tatsuya. “I stopped and fed the cats.”

He reaches into the plastic bag hanging from his wrist, fumbling a little. The foil-wrapped sandwich is still hot to the touch, but not too hot to handle; he pulls it out and hands it to Taiga.

“It’s your birthday,” says Taiga.

“You're welcome,” says Tatsuya.

“What if I wanted to treat you to breakfast?” says Taiga.

“While you’re on duty? What a bad boy.”

Tatsuya’s said the words half in jest, but Taiga looks down at him (unfair, how the hell is he so tall, how the hell are his hands the perfect size to palm a basketball, when he drives a fire truck and scales a ladder and drags a hose every day instead?) with his eyes blazing brighter than the color of the truck right beside him.

“Shit,” Tatsuya breathes, his mouth maybe an inch or so away from Taiga’s.

“I’m at work,” Taiga says, stepping away, an apologetic look on his face.

He reaches up to brush Tatsuya’s cheek with his thumb, and then he turns to go.

“Thanks for the sandwich.”

“Anytime.”

Tatsuya watches Taiga leave, shamelessly taking in the way he moves his feet and the curve of his ass, only emphasized by the suspenders holding up his pants. He knows Tatsuya’s looking, but he doesn’t play it up.

* * *

There’s no practice and no game today. Last year, it had been the same deal on his birthday, early in the season and he’d felt like hanging up some points on the Wolves at home except the game had been the next day. Practice had been optional, and half the team hadn’t been there, and Tatsuya’s got no interest in showing up the rookies and bench players on his own goddamn team. If he could play basketball with Taiga today, though—a pipe dream, still coming back to him, when they’re out for dinner.

Nets-Wizards is on TV; Tatsuya’s on his second margarita and his free hand’s under the table touching Taiga’s knee, and maybe that’s why it’s so easy to try and picture him as one of them. He could see Taiga in a Nets uniform, Taiga executing Rollins’s slick crossovers or Nijimura’s lunging fakes (or Taiga in a Knicks uniform, playing right alongside him; Taiga in a Lakers uniform, facing off at home).

“You're quiet,” says Taiga.

“Thinking about you,” says Tatsuya. “If you’d played basketball, if we’d ended up playing against each other. I’ve told you you have the build for it, and you’ve got good hands…good reflexes.”

“I’m good at what I do now,” says Taiga. “But, I guess…wouldn’t it be weird for you? Like, you’re the person who’s taught me all of what I know about basketball, but if we were just two people around the same age with the same passion…”

“It would be different,” Tatsuya allows. “But, if I could see you play…”

(Then again, it probably wouldn’t be anything like his imagination. Taiga would be better than him, in a way that cuts into Tatsuya’s insecurities like a trap, a belt made out of spikes expanding inward against his skin. Or Taiga would play a wholly uninteresting style—not possible! Not with those hands and those legs and that vertical. But he’d play in a way that Tatsuya couldn’t reconcile with the man sitting across from him right now.)

“You’re thinking too much,” says Taiga. “And, I mean. It’s not like it’s going to happen.”

And it’s not useful to imagine and fantasize about a different Taiga.

“I’m sorry,” says Tatsuya.

“You’re good,” says Taiga.

* * *

The restaurant’s only a few blocks from Tatsuya’s place, which is a few blocks from the fire station; when they get the last few wings from their last order to go and set off it feels like a longer way. Probably all the food (at least on Tatsuya’s end) more than all the drinks (though they might be getting a little old to drink like this—not for hangover-related reasons, but because it feels a little embarrassing to go over in his head how many margaritas and beers he’d actually consumed, like a freshman at his first frat party or one of the rookies on a much-awaited road trip to Toronto where they’re fucking legal so even the coaches can't get too mad). It’s late enough that the bus station by the subway entrance is almost deserted, and though the windows in the restaurant (and, a block beyond that, the new hospital entrance) are full of light they seem small and inconsequential.

If Tatsuya’s being honest, the one thing that truly matters right now is getting home with Taiga and getting into bed, getting rid of these stupid street clothes and feeling Taiga’s mouth against his skin. But that’s not long, even after shoving the leftovers in the fridge and dropping their coats in a heap in the hall, Taiga kissing Tatsuya while his scarf is still on, hands grazing the coldest parts of the shell of Tatsuya’s ears, like the kiss they hadn’t had that morning, like the ones they’d shared after Taiga had gotten off work but before dinner. The familiar gnaw of dissatisfaction is coming down on Tatsuya’s stomach; he wants more, needs more, like three more steals to the triple double or five more baskets to reach the arbitrary goal he’d set for himself, only there’s no goal or finish line here. But there’s no diminishing returns, either.

  
  



End file.
